Waiting For You
by HardlyFatal
Summary: The only thing keeping Sansa sane as she navigates a series of no-good, terrible, very bad blind dates is Sandor, and knowing that at least his blind dates are awful, too. COMPLETE
1. Every Day a Shade of Blue

December 31, 2015

Mark was nice enough. Sansa wondered if her mother's meddling, by setting up this blind date, might actually end up being helpful. For once.

The only tarnish on the evening, which Sansa considered minor in this day and age of tech-obsession, was that he seemed unable to stop using his phone. Throughout dinner, Mark's gaze kept flicking between her and the phone, which he kept canted at just the precise angle that she couldn't see what he was doing.

Everything was proceeding nicely until the food arrived and cutting his steak proved more challenging than Mark could accomplish one-handed. He tucked the phone between his chin and shoulder, trying to slice his beef and maintain their conversation while doing so, and looking kind of ridiculous, Sansa had to admit. He tried to pull off a jaunty shrug, and that's when his phone fell.

Onto his steak, screen up.

Revealing that, rather than having a messaging app open, or even Facebook or Instagram or Twitter, he'd been watching porn.

Really _filthy_ porn, if her eyes weren't deceiving her and that really was a shoulder-length black rubber fisting glove being enthusiastically utilized for its intended purpose.

He correctly read the expression on Sansa's face and motioned for the waiter as he attempted to clean _jus_ off his phone with his less-than-absorbent polyester napkin.

"Can we get our meals wrapped to go?" he asked wistfully.

The waiter, sensing tension, nodded briskly. He snatched up their plates and trotted off to turn their lovely dinners into doggy bags.

"I'll… just go wait in the lobby," Sansa told him, and stood.

"Good idea—" Mark began, rising, but she interrupted.

" _You_ wait here." There was no room for disagreement in her tone.

"Um. Yes. Okay," he mumbled, and sat back down while she strode from the main dining room. Her last glance of him revealed he was once more staring avidly down at his phone, not appearing too chagrined at this turn of events since he still had plenty of porn to watch.

Sansa tapped one expensively-shod toe on the foyer's shiny marble floor and stared out the glass door. The rain-slick street reflected the red-and-green Christmas lights that should— if the gods were merciful— be taken down soon. Tonight was New Year's Eve, and she felt six weeks of relentless holiday cheer was plenty. She was ready for it to be over so she could settle into her late-winter funk that usually consisted of her daydreaming about summer and wasting too much time shopping for 'the perfect bikini', which she would never end up wearing because she ended up being too busy to get to the beach.

She sighed. Her mother deemed Sansa, at the age of twenty-six, officially old enough to 'think seriously' about getting married and starting a family. Sansa's own ambivalence toward those things took a clear back seat, in terms of Catelyn's priorities. Desperate reminders that various others of her children had already provided her with several grandchildren, and two more were on the way, were disregarded as irrelevant.

Catelyn had decided that if Sansa was going to shirk her duty to snag a man and start popping out babies, it was up to her determined mama to make it happen.

Thus, Mark. He was a client of Catelyn's headhunter firm, and everything she could hope for in a son-in-law: okay-looking, reasonably polite, not too stupid. He had a college degree and a decent résumé, which was to Catelyn an indicator of employability and thus financial security, the two most important traits for a son-in-law to have.

In a weak moment after breakfast on Christmas morning, while watching the grandkids opening their gifts and shrieking in joy, and feeling a pang of Fear of Missing Out, Sansa had agreed to let her mother fix her up on a blind date, the results of which were being handed over to her at that very moment by the waiter who'd duly boxed up her untouched supper.

He turned, the other doggy bag in his hand, with clear intent to bring it to Mark, but Sansa's temper snapped— just a little, just as much as it ever did, which wasn't very much at all— and she snatched it from his hand before darting out to the waterlogged sidewalk and down the street, intent on hailing a cab home and then dining lavishly, all by herself. The little flame of satisfaction for sticking Mark with the bill and depriving him of his meal kept her warm most of the way home, but by the time she let herself into her apartment building, it had faded and left behind a chilly lump of resignation in her stomach, which curdled her appetite entirely.

She was lonely.

It didn't seem as if it were possible. She seemed, at first glance, to have a good life: she was kept busy with her job as a fashion journalist, and both her family and two roommates tended more toward rowdy than calm, so there was always something to do, and someone to do it with. Her life was a whirlwind of print deadlines, drinks after work and mini-breaks to the seashore or skiing. On paper— or on Instagram, same thing these days— she seemed to have the perfect cosmopolitan existence.

Wherefore, then, her longing for quiet nights in, with someone to share a home-cooked meal, then cuddle as they watched TV?

Sansa heaved a sigh and stepped off the elevator just as the heavy metal door to the stairs leading to the roof slammed shut with a _clang!_ Then the apartment door across the hallway from Sansa's opened, and a large redheaded man stepped out, brandishing an umbrella like a sword.

"Sandor, you dumb fuck, you forgot—" His shrewd green gaze perceived that the sole occupant of the hallway was Sansa and he cut off abruptly. "Oh, hey, Sansa."

"Hi, Tormund," she replied, her voice warm, and smiled. She concluded that his roommate, one Sandor Clegane, he of the monumental build and savage facial scarring, had been the one to take the roof stairs. She knew he liked stargazing from up there, and though tonight was overcast due to the freezing-cold rain, their dingy apartment building's lone claim to fame was a clear and unobstructed view of the Flatiron Building, from which descended the lit-up ball signifying the transition into the new year.

"He's going to freeze his ass off up there," Tormund stated with grim satisfaction. "He only just got home from a date. Why couldn't he wait another twenty minutes and watch it on the TV?" He shook his head, puzzled. "He's a glutton for punishment."

More likely that he was tired of hearing Tormund and his girlfriend, Sansa's roommate Brienne, billing and cooing like a particularly sick-making pair of mated swans. Sansa had a limited tolerance for it herself. If Brienne was with Tormund, and their third roommate Margaery was at some hellaciously noisy New Year's party with her boyfriend, Bronn, that meant Sansa would be all by herself when 2016 turned into 2017, and suddenly that seemed unbearably awful.

"Give me the umbrella," she told Tormund. "I'll take it up to Sandor. I don't mind."

She didn't know Sandor very well— they were far closer to being acquaintances brought together by mutual friends, than friends themselves—but what the hell, she figured. Better than sighing over her extravagant meal all by herself.

Tormund didn't have to be convinced to hand over the umbrella; he had a six-foot-three Valkyrie to return to. He thanked her swiftly and disappeared back into his apartment.

Sansa juggled the umbrella, her purse, and the two doggy bags while she fumbled with the key to her apartment. Once inside, she set it all down and went to her bedroom, exchanging her strappy heels and form-fitting minidress for yoga pants, a sweatshirt, and thick socks under Uggs. She stuck her keys in her bra, snatched up some blankets from the sofa, snagged forks and knives from the drawer, and made her heavily-laden way to the roof.

Tormund made fun of Sandor's propensity for spending time on the roof, but Sansa knew something Tormund did not: that there was still an old dovecote up there, with an overhang to protect its former occupants from the elements, and it was a snug and waterproof little place for when you just wanted to chill by yourself in peace and quiet. She had told Sandor about it, sensing in him a kindred introverted spirit who needed a goodly amount of quiet time away from his boisterous ginger roommate.

Sansa tried to be as quiet as possible, wanting to sneak up on him, but Sandor apparently possessed the ears of a bat, because when she sprang at him from around the corner of the dovecote, he just quirked an unimpressed eyebrow at her from where he was sitting on a blanket of his own. It was cold up here, but dry and kind of cozy.

"Between your stomping on the gravel roof, and the way those paper bags are rustling, you might as well have had a brass band announce you," he drawled.

Sansa pouted, creating a fluffy nest of blankets for herself before plopping down at his side and unwrapping the food.

"No steak for you, then," she replied serenely, and cut herself a big bite of beef. It was still warm, and dripping juices, and out of the corner of her eye she could see his formidable nose twitching at the smell of it.

"You're a cruel woman," he rumbled at her, and leaned back on his hands with a scowl.

"And don't you forget it," she agreed. "That'll teach you to be rude to me."

He snorted a laugh. "And what if I just _took_ the steak from you?"

"Then you'd better start sleeping light, because I _will_ get back at you when you least expect it," was her prompt reply. He only snorted again, indicating what he thought of her threat of retaliation. "But since you're such a huge baby…"

She handed him the other doggy bag and he eagerly set to demolishing it.

They ate in silence for a while, listening to the trickle and patter of rain outside their shelter and the dim sounds of cheering and shouting from the crowds, one block over, waiting for the ball to drop. From where they sat, they had a perfect view of where the lit-up ball swayed on its pole, awaiting only the command before descending in welcome to another year.

Sansa finished her meal and snuggled back into her second blanket, casting a critical eye over her companion. He was wearing jeans, as ever, but his shirt was slightly less disreputable than what he usually wore, and his hair looked as if he'd tidied it with an actual comb instead of just his fingers. He'd been on a date. But if he were home already, it clearly had gone as well as her own had.

"So what went wrong?" she asked, therefore.

He slanted her a look without turning his head. She knew it disconcerted him when she could discern things without being told. It always seemed to surprise him that she could be pretty _and_ have a brain in her head.

Sandor grimaced. "Thought I recognized her when I picked her up. Halfway through dinner, I remembered where I'd seen her." He paused for effect. "Spit-roasted between two dudes on PornHub."

"Oh, no!" Sansa burst out giggling, ignoring the evil glare he shot her way. "I think tonight's date theme was 'porn' all-around." She told him about her own evening, and shot him an evil glare of her own when he began to laugh that deep belly-laugh of his.

"It'll be okay," she said when they'd both settled down. "The next dates will be great. Right? Right." She held out a fist for him to bump in solidarity. He looked at her oddly, then very carefully touched his own ham-sized fist to her comparatively tiny one.

"Right," he agreed, but his tone clearly said he was humoring her.

The cheering from the street grew louder, and the glowing ball began its ponderous descent.

"Here we go!" Sansa couldn't disguise the excitement tinging her voice, despondent though she was feeling that night, and Sandor quirked her one of his half-smiles to hear it. With ten seconds to go, she began chanting along with the countdown, poking his shoulder until he, with great reluctance, joined her for the last five.

"Happy new year!" she shrieked at him, laughing when he winced at her piercing volume, and planted a noisy smooch on his breaded cheek. "This year will be it, Sandor, I feel it! We'll have wonderful dates and maybe find The One for each of us."

Sandor rolled his eyes at her and heaved himself to his feet, beginning to fold up his blanket. "Yeah, I believe you completely," he said, not sounding convinced at all, and plucked the umbrella off the ground.

Sansa stood up, too, gathering up the styrofoam boxes their meals had been in, and her blankets, and waddled after him toward the stairs.

"I'm sure my next blind date will go better than this one." she told him.

He grunted. "I do not share your faith about that. At least not for any dates of mine."

"Ooh, when you have another one, text me when it's over, tell me how it went?"

They had paused in the hallway between their apartments. He grunted again.

"You just want to laugh at my shitty luck."

"I'm giving you the opportunity to laugh at _my_ shitty luck, if it ends up the next guy is a turd like Pornhub Guy was," Sansa countered.

The prospect of her also having a lousy date cheered him, and he quirked a tiny half-smile at her.

"Fine," he said, and disappeared into his apartment.


	2. No One Brighter than You

March 2016

Sansa hadn't wanted to go on this date, either, but her mother's enthusiasm ("He owns his own business!") had overridden her misgivings. Again. She really had to work on her fortitude, when it came to her mother.

She glanced down at her phone's GPS app, then back up at the location to where it had guided her, then back down at the phone. This was definitely the address Jason had given her, when they'd solidified plans for their date. He was going to cook her dinner at his place, except…

…his place appeared to be a parking lot occupied only by long-haul rigs. She looked at her phone again, then back up, then repeated the cycle as she tried to figure out what had gone wrong.

"Hey there!" said a friendly voice from quite close, and Sansa sprang away to find that a man had approached her so silently she'd had no clue he was anywhere nearby. "You must be Sansa. I'm Jason."

 _Well, he looked normal enough,_ she supposed. Medium height, which put him at only an inch or so over her, with medium build and brown hair. He wore jeans, a flannel shirt over a t-shirt, Timberland boots, and a rather grimy-looking trucker cap.

"Yes, I'm Sansa." She took his outstretched hand and shook it. "It's nice to meet you?" She hadn't meant to turn it into a question, but at this point, all Sansa had were questions.

"Come on over to my place." Jason tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow in a pretty suave gesture, she had to admit, and began to lead her into the parking lot, toward one of the semis.

"Your place is a truck?" Even in the dark, lit up only by a few dingy street lights, she could tell the cab of it was a lurid purple. Big block print on the door announced it the property of _You Holler, We_ _'ll Haul'er Trucking_.

"Yep!" replied Jason, perfectly blithe. "I've cooked us dinner."

Sansa frowned. She knew squat about huge rigs like this, but she was pretty sure there was no kitchen set-up included. Wondering if this was entirely safe— and admitting to herself it probably wasn't— she climbed up into the miniscule room behind the front seats.

Credit where it was deserved: he'd made an effort to tidy the place up. There was a neatly-made, if narrow, bed stretching across the width of the cab, and a tiny fold-down table had two large paper cups placed side-by-side. Behind them, an electric kettle gently steamed, waiting to pour its bounty over the dried noodles Sansa knew were in the cups.

"…Ramen?" she asked, sounding awed even to herself, and she _was_ awed, that this man thought a) that ramen was an appropriate 'date' meal, and b) that he thought making ramen was cooking in the first place.

"Hope you like it! Do you want chicken flavor, or spicy Oriental?"

Sansa was no snob. She ate that ramen.

But as soon as the last noodle had been slurped up, she excused herself to take the phone call she pretending was coming in. Outside, she rubbed her hands down her chilly thighs— again, she'd worn a skirt impractically short for the chilly, rainy weather— and pondered what to do. On the one hand, Jason seemed nice, if boring. There was nothing wrong with him, per se. He was just… kind of short? And his smooth, boyish face seemed kind of… young?

She felt absolutely no attraction to him whatsoever. It didn't seem fair to let him think there could be anything between them. With a sigh, Sansa yanked on the huge truck door to go back and tell him she was leaving…

…and stopped, her mouth dropping open in shocked alarm (or maybe alarmed shock) because while she'd been dithering outside in the wet parking lot, Jason had been proactive and gotten naked. Worse, he'd already pre-loaded a condom, and sat there, patiently waiting for Sansa to return and bang him.

Had she misunderstood something? Said something that could be misconstrued as "Even though I've only known you for literally ten minutes, sure, let's have sex!" Her mind raced as she thought back over the four sentences she'd exchanged with Jason…

…

…nope, there'd been nothing.

She managed to squeak out an excuse and backed out of the cab like an ejector pod shot from a crashing space ship; she made it to the street corner in under five seconds, and five seconds after that was running into the street to climb into the taxi that had just screeched to a halt in response to her frenzied waving.

As the taxi whisked her uptown toward her apartment building, she texted Sandor.

Sansa: _date over. somehow was even weirder than teh last 1. u still on urs or did you crash n burn 2?_

Sandor's text came right away, and since he usually spelled well, used complete sentences, and even used proper grammar instead of netspeak and abbreviations, it seemed indicative that he had his hands full at that moment.

Sandor: _still on daet ttyl_

It turned out that the ramen wasn't terribly filling, so Sansa exchanged her date outfit for her 'yummy sushi' pajamas. She washed off her makeup, took out her contacts and settled her glasses on her nose, and scraped her hair into a ponytail. Then she made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and poured herself a glass of milk. She had just settled on the sofa for her meal and a little introspection into the downward spiral her life's path appeared to be taking when someone knocked— hammered, really— on the door.

Sandwich still in hand, she went to open it and found Sandor standing there. He looked rumpled and grouchy and… embarrassed?

"What happened?" she asked.

His response was to lean down and eat half her PB&J in one bite.

"Oh, for god's sake," she muttered, thrusting the remains of it at him and heading back to the kitchen to make another one for herself. He followed her, and when she turned from getting the jam back out of the fridge, it was to find he'd polished off his purloined sandwich and was halfway to draining her glass of milk. She resentfully pulled out another glass from the cupboard, poured herself a glass— and him a refill, which he raised to her in a silent toast, still chewing— before slapping two more sandwiches together.

"You might as well spill," she sighed as she handed him his second helping. Once back on the sofa, she bit into her meal and looked at him expectantly.

Sandor opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Amazingly, miraculously, a slow tide of pink washed over his cheeks, visible even through the dark fur of his short beard.

Sansa blinked. This was an unprecedented reaction from him. He liked to behave as if he'd seen it all, done it all, and had no shame left for anything on the planet.

"You first," was what he finally managed, and chomped down half of his second sandwich.

She shook her head in amusement, then launched into her tale of woe.

"Ramen Noodle Truck Stop Man?" he repeated, incredulous, when he heard the name with which she'd labeled her date.

" 'Jason' is a forgettable name, don't you think?" she asked him pertly. "But Ramen Noodle Truck Stop Man is _forever_."

Sandor had to put down his (almost empty) glass of milk because he was laughing so hard he was about to drop it. Sansa crossed her arms over her chest and waited patiently, albeit with a scowl, for his hilarity to run its course.

"Let's hear about your date, then, if it was soooo much better than mine," she challenged when his mirth had diminished.

And then he _blushed_ again. Sansa pressed her lips together to keep from squeeing; it was freaking adorable in the weirdest way possible, to see this hulking brute of a man turning a dainty pink over god-only-knew-what.

"Spill it," she commanded imperiously, putting down her own almost-full glass and mostly-whole sandwich so they were not imperiled when he finally revealed the cause of his embarrassment.

"Well, uh," Sandor began, "it went fine, at first." He gazed past Sansa, or rather past her left ear, at the ghastly watercolor Brienne had made at her monthly dab-and-sip class (which was really just an excuse to get together with other women, drink a lot of wine, and drunkenly splash paint around).

"And then?" Sansa prompted.

He shifted and stared beyond her right shoulder at the lava lamp Margaery had kept from her college days. "So then we went back to her place. And began to, uh…"

She lifted her eyebrows, incredulous. "Sandor, I'm twenty-six years old. I think you can skip the maidenly vapors and tactful pauses and just tell me you had sex."

His eyes cut back to her face, piercing with irritation. "Fine. We started to have sex. She got naked, then I got naked. I hadn't brought any condoms because I really hadn't thought it would get to that point. Stupid. Anyway, she said it was fine, she had her own stash, got one from the box."

Sandor took a deep breath, his gaze traveling now along the crown moldings, not even pretending he was looking at her anymore.

"But when I tried to put it on, it, uh, broke."

Sansa shrugged. "It happens."

His eyes flicked back to her once more before darting away.

"We laughed, she pulled out another, I tried to put it on, and that one broke, too."

Sansa frowned in thought. "Faulty box?"

"She insisted not," he replied. "Said she'd used the same ones with someone else the previous week without problems. Figured I was just a bit clumsy, and tried to do number three herself, but that one broke, as well."

Here, he colored up once more and stared at the leg of the coffee table in stony silence.

"Just tell me what the hell happened!" Sansa finally exploded.

"It's too big!" he shouted back. "It was too big for the condoms," he repeated, his voice more subdued. "I usually have to buy the special brand for, you know, big ones, and the ones she had were just regular-sized. I didn't think it would be a problem. They're rubber, you know? I thought it would stretch and be fine in a pinch, until I could get my usual brand. But, uh, I guess even rubber has its critical mass, and, so, you know…"

He trailed off, and there was Dead. Silence. Sansa stared at him, her eyes wide Os of amazement. Her mouth, too.

"So then she apologized but said that it just wasn't going to fit and she was kind of scared of it at that point and I should go. So I got dressed and came home. The end."

Sandor quit staring at anything but her, and looked her right in the eye, _daring_ her to laugh.

Sansa felt the laughter well up inside her. It was going to be a volcanic eruption of humor, a tsunami of uncontrollable mirth. She only hoped she survived it.

On the other side of the room, the lava lamp gave a discreet burp.

The laughter bubbled up, slowly, starting in her belly and flowing outward until it burst from her in nigh-hysterical cackles.

She laughed until she cried, she laughed until she hiccupped, she laughed until she peed herself. Just a little, just a drop. But yes, that happened.

Just as she'd start to calm down, Sandor's carefully blank mien would set her off again. She laughed and laughed and laughed, and finally his icy expression thawed. His mouth started to curl at one corner, then the other, and soon he was laughing too, so hard he fell out of his chair to slump on the floor.

Sansa didn't care about staying upright; she let the hilarity tumble her to her side and then she just lay there, limp as an old dishrag, and gasped for breath between giggles. On the floor, Sandor's mighty chest heaved with exertion.

"Critical mass!" she gasped, and off they went once more.

"Afraid of it!" he choked out, and they wheezed with hilarity until they could scarcely breathe.

Finally, in exhaustion, they just lay there in a silence disturbed only by an occasional hiccup on Sansa's part.

"My ribs hurt," she complained, and dangled a hand over the side of the couch. When it brushed against his shirt, she began to pat whatever part it happened to cover (a granite-hard pectoral, for the record) in what she hoped was a comforting way. "Don't worry about it. I'm sure one day you'll find the right girl. A girl with a vagoo cavernous enough to take your monstrous condom-destroying dong."

"Fuck's sake," he mumbled. "Vagoo?"

"Assault with a deadly weapon!" she hooted.

"Fuck's sake!" he repeated, louder, sounding exasperated, but when she rolled over and looked down at where he sprawled, flat on his back on her ratty carpet, he was grinning.

The door opened and Brienne entered, Tormund on her heels.

"What's all the commotion in here?" she asked mildly, looking around as if inspecting for the property damage that must have accompanied so much noise.

"Nothing, nothing," Sansa said, forcing herself to a sitting position and swiping hair out of her face. "Just a case of the sillies."

Brienne and Tormund's eyes swiveled, as one, over to Sandor as he hauled himself to his feet. His size, scars, and general ambience made him look murderous even in the best of circumstances; if ever there were a person who looked less like they'd ever succumb to a 'case of the sillies', he was it.

But he said, "Yeah," jammed the last half of his sandwich into his gigantic mouth, gulped down the last of his milk, and sauntered off to his own place. Tormund trailed behind him, demanding to know what in the hell had been so funny.

Brienne fixed Sansa with a puzzled little frown. "You want to talk about anything?"

"I'm good," Sansa replied. She tottered toward the kitchen to wrap up the rest of her sandwich and put the half-full glass of milk in the fridge for tomorrow; her ribs felt tender from all the laughing, and she doubted she could manage another bite.

"You and Sandor are becoming good friends," Brienne commented. She was a therapist, and had a gentle-but-relentless method for squirreling information out of people who didn't particularly want to reveal it. But Sansa was on to her.

"Don't matchmake," she scolded. "He's a nice guy. We get along. That's it."

With a little smile and a 'good night', she ambled to the bathroom and, while brushing her teeth, pondered The Conundrum That Was Sandor. She'd met him when he and Tormund had moved in across the hall, and then seen him more often once Brienne had finally caved to Tormund's unrelenting assault on her heart.

He _was_ a nice guy, for all that he played the giant angry bastard whenever possible. Once she'd discovered his predilection for stargazing on the roof, she'd wondered what else he had in him that was interesting. There was something in their dealings, something possibly significant and so monumentally, achingly huge that even pondering it scared the living daylights out of her. Just the hint of it made her back away like a scalded cat, nipping basic, formless impressions in the bud before they could take shape and resemble anything like actual thoughts or concepts.

At least, usually. Tonight, there was no way she'd be able to keep from wondering about that deadly weapon of his.

Sansa flopped onto her bed and pulled a pillow over her face. Maybe she'd smother. Or fall asleep. Either was okay.


	3. Heavenly That's What You Are

June 2016

Sansa put herself on a 'dating diet' after her interlude with Ramen Noodle Truck Stop Man and gave her mother stern instructions not to set her up on any more blind dates for at least six months. This lasted exactly _three_ months, as she was informed in early June that she was to meet a lovely computer engineer for another sure-to-be-hellacious blind date. Since the headhunter agency stood to make a fortune if they managed to find Darryl a position, it was strongly suggested that Sansa ensure that the date went _very well_ , if she knew what Catelyn meant.

Sansa did, in fact, know what Catelyn meant.

"You know, Mom, that since I'll be compensated by getting a meal out of this, and you set this all up to to ensure his cooperation, that technically this makes you my pimp?"

Then she held the phone away from her ear so as to not go deaf from the explosion of rage that squawked from the speaker.

"Oh, sorry," Sansa said when her mother had calmed down into an unsettled silence. "I meant you're my madam."

That hadn't gone over any better.

Thus it was that Sansa took herself to the Irish-style pub in Midtown, frequented by business travelers more than locals, at which she and Darryl had agreed to meet. She succumbed to the bartender's persistent offers of Guinness, and nursed one as she waited, and waited, and waited.

After a half-hour, she was starting to get grumpy when the doors parted and a gloriously handsome young man entered. He stood there, head a-swivel as he searched the teeming masses of humanity within, while Sansa sat there, transfixed. _Could this be him?_

When his gaze landed on Sansa, his face lit in a toothpaste-commercial grin, and he came right over to her.

 _Blessings upon my mother,_ she thought, feeling a little dazed as he just got better- and better-looking the closer he approached.

"You look like you're waiting for someone," he said. "Myranda?"

Sansa deflated like a soufflé. "No," she replied, feeling tragic, "I'm Sansa."

"My loss, then," he said. The sallow light of the bar shone golden on his blond hair. "I'm Harry. You meeting a blind date or something?"

"Or something." She smiled so that her dimple showed to best advantage and wondered if perhaps this could be salvaged. "How about you?"

"I'm a photographer," answered Harry as he slid onto the stool beside hers, "and I'm here to hand off some photos to a customer."

Things were looking up. It was a perfect entry to conversation, and Sansa launched into a gentle interrogation about his work. Her carefully-tuned flirtation techniques were working a treat, genuine appreciation gleaming in Harry's hazel eyes, when the pub doors opened.

The man who entered took Sansa's breath away, but not for the reasons she'd have preferred. His pudgy body, shaped like a barrel with arms and legs, was clad in a velour track suit that she had a sneaking suspicion had started out its unfortunate life as white, but which was at present a sickly gray. Darker gray under the armpits indicated that he had sweated through the fabric. Down the front of the track suit's jacket cascaded yellow streaks of what she felt certain was dried egg yolk.

The _pi_ _èce de résistance_ , however, was the mirror-shiny, combed-back pompadour surmounting his doughy face. Sansa was helplessly dazzled by its jet-black, helmety perfection and merely gaped at him, unresponsive to Harry's oblivious conversation as Darryl shuffled over to her.

"Sansa?" he inquired in a scratchy voice indicative of a five-pack-a-day habit. _Six_ _packs a day,_ she corrected herself absently, once the pong of stale smoke washed over her.

She blinked. Reason was returning to her now, after its temporary suspension. Beside her, Harry had turned and was doing a similar slack-jawed fish impression at the mesmerizing sight before him.

"No," she replied, "my name is Myranda."

She darted a look at Harry, and it must have been a pleading, desperate one, because he slung an arm around her waist and nuzzled her hair. "Honey, do you know this guy?"

Track Suit Elvis' face fell. Without a word of apology for disturbing her, he shambled off deeper into the tangle of people getting their Irish on.

Guiltily, Sansa turned back to Harry. He was watching her with a kind of guarded fascination, as if he were amused but also disturbed and unsure which emotion he should give rein to.

" _Thank you_ ," she gushed. "I feel kind of bad for brushing him off, but… well, first of all, he was really late! And… that outfit. That _hair_."

"I've never seen hair like that before, outside of a movie," he replied easily. His arm had remained around her, and he drew her in just a fraction of an inch closer. "So, _Myranda_ ," he continued, aiming another grin at her, "what's your number?"

She promptly gave it to him, and not a moment too soon, as a middle-aged woman in a businesslike pant suit, her dark hair coaxed into a fussy up-do, pushed her way through the throng toward them.

"Mr. Hardyng," said Fussy Pant Suit, "you have the photos?"

Harry excused himself, and Sansa slunk off to let him do his business without her as a distraction. She waggled her fingers at him in farewell as she left the bar, and he shot a wink at her over Fussy's shoulder.

She traipsed home feeling rather happy, about her narrowly-avoided catastrophe of a date, and for meeting a real contender of a guy. Harry seemed, well, perfect. Her text to Sandor went unanswered, however, and when she woke up the next morning, it was to find he'd replied at 4 am, long after she'd gone to sleep.

All it said was, _This is the best night of my life._

Sansa stared at the message a long, long time, trying to figure out what that hollow feeling in her belly was. She decided it was just jealousy that he'd clearly gotten laid and she just as clearly hadn't. She didn't answer the text, however, or any of the others Sandor sent her that morning.

He found her up on the roof, under the dovecote's overhang, as the late afternoon sun was inching over the horizon, its last few rays of buttery light receding before the azure shadows of twilight. Ensconced on a big fluffy floor poof, she crocheted a scarf for one of the endless number of Starks back home up North. Despite it being the height of summer's scorching temperatures, winter was always coming eventually.

Sandor dumped his blanket into a lumpy mess and dropped onto it, slumping back against the dovecote. He looked beat-to-hell exhausted, as if he hadn't slept at all the previous night, but it was a happy exhausted, like his rougher edges had been softened to a fuzzy haze.

"Hi!" she chirped, with an extra-annoying dose of pertness. "Date went well, I think?"

"Date went amazing," he corrected, letting his eyelids drop closed. _"Amazing_."

"Oh, do tell," she coaxed. She thought she was doing a fantastic job of hiding how much she wanted to hit him, if she did say so herself.

"So I showed up at the lounge where we'd arranged to meet," he began. He stretched his mile-long legs out before him, crossing them at his ankles.

"Did she not turn up?" Sansa asked, feeling a little hopeful.

"No, she was there." He got a funny glint in his eye. "With her three girlfriends."

"Girlfriends, as in 'girls who are friends'?"

"No, girlfriends as in 'all four of us are in a polyamorous relationship."

Sansa blinked at him over the rim of her glasses. "I was not expecting that."

"Neither was I," he said. "They… pulled me down into the booth where they were sitting, two on each side of me, and told me that they were looking for a man to join them to 'spice things up', I think they called it." He grinned at that, the slowest, dirtiest grin Sansa had ever seen. It made the roiling feeling in her stomach coalesce into a battle between anger and arousal. It was damned sexy, that grin, but it wasn't aimed at her. She crocheted that scarf at top speed to keep from reaching out and pinching him until he bruised.

"With four women, I truly hope you didn't have the same condom problem as last time," was what she ended up saying at last. "You must have used up an entire box."

"I didn't have sex with four women," he corrected, and somewhere in the pit of her stomach, Sansa felt a little tingle of… relief? Had he excused himself from such a scene of debauchery? "Only with three of them. One had to leave at the last minute."

The relief was gone as quickly as it had appeared, leaving just that tight discomfort. She put a hand on her belly and massaged it.

"Nasty," was her succinct response. And she turned her gaze down resolutely to her crocheting. "But maybe I'd feel different if I had the opportunity to have a gangbang with three or four men. I should give that a try and see. Maybe my next blind date can bring along two or three friends. Heck, maybe four or five! I'm 100% positive I could take on five guys at once. What do you think?"

Sandor didn't answer, and when she glanced up at him, a tiny flame of satisfaction flickered to life deep within, in response to his narrowed eyes and tight jaw.

"No? Aw." Then, prodding him like a sore tooth, "Aren't you going to ask me about _my_ date?"

"How was _your_ date, then?" he demanded, and his tone was just on this side of rude.

"Track Suit Elvis." Nothing more was needed to describe it, she felt.

"Blue Hawaii Elvis or Vegas Elvis?"

"Died-on-the-toilet Elvis."

He winced. "That's tough luck."

"But then the best-looking man I've ever seen in my life showed up and saved me from Track Suit Elvis' clutches, and we have a date next week." Sansa held up the scarf, identified a bad stitch, and proceeded to unravel half a row. "So it was all a worthwhile sacrifice for the greater good."

"Best-looking _ever_?"

She nodded emphatically. "A golden god. Fit in a lean way, like a tennis pro, with beautiful hazel eyes, blond curly hair, and the profile of a Greek statue."

"The fuck's that mean?"

"That his nose is perfect."

"The fuck's _that_ mean?"

"Not too big or small, not bulby or pinchy at the tip, not too wide or narrow, and perfectly, exquisitely straight."

Sandor was quiet a long time, and Sansa looked up to find him staring at her with an expression of bafflement tinged around the edges with irritation. She wondered if he thought she had made a point of mentioning Harry's nose in comparison to the busted Roman honker on his own face— because she _had_ — and then she wondered if he found _her_ nose lacking according to her own definition. Her hand came up to worriedly fondle her petite proboscis.

"There's nothing wrong with your nose, you vain idiot," he growled at her, that low testosterone-soaked rumble that made various parts of her feel distinctly perky. "I hope everything goes well for you two. Your children will have the best fucking noses on the whole fucking planet."

He sounded irate, and that was miles better, _acres_ and _leagues_ and _fathoms_ better than his smug self-satisfaction of having had sex with three women, none of whom were her. She beamed him a gracious smile.

"That's kind of you to say, Sandor."

"Yeah, I'm famous for my goddamned kindness."

 _Ooh,_ his mood had really tanked. Sansa tried to feel bad for spoiling it for him, but it didn't work. In fact, it made her smile wider.

He stood in one lithe motion, far more graceful than a man his size had any right to be, and muttered something under his breath that sounded quite a lot like, 'crazier than a shithouse rat'.

"I heard that," she singsonged after him as he stomped to the stairs.

"I meant you to," he snarled over his shoulder, and slammed the door after him.


	4. You're Burning Me Like a Shining Star

September 2016

Sansa: _this date has taken turn 4 the weird. didnt think it could get stranger than ramen noodle truck stop man, but i was wrong. so so wrong. had high hopes but i am disappoint_

Sansa: _never tried bondage b4. how cn it b so boring? i ask u. i need ansers_

Sansa: _what r u up 2? urs going any better? spill teh beans, bub_

Sandor: _I_ _'m at the hospital right now._

Sansa: _hopsital? did ur bondage go badly 2? IS UR DEADLY WEAPON BROKEN?_

Sansa: _Y IS IT SUCH A BAD NITE 4 BONDAGE?_

Sandor: _MY DICK IS FINE. THERE WAS NO BONDAGE. WHAT THE FUCK. WHY DO YOU KEEP TALKING ABOUT BONDAGE?_

Sansa: _ur only person i no who types out WTF. u r an old_

Sandor: _Fuck your old. Tell me about the bondage._

Sansa: _so we went 2 dinner, then back 2 his place for netflix n chill. started 2 make out. got naked_

Sansa: _hes v. bad oral. culd not take direction. no style all. points deducted 4 lack of energy n failur 2 follow thru 2 end. lackluster per4mance overall. i give him 2 out of 10 stars_

Sandor: _What is this, the pussy-eating Olympics?_

Sansa: _there should b an olimpics for that. id b best judge ever. Im v. strict_

Sandor: _You need therapy._

Sansa: _ur a party pooper. dont poop on my party, man_

Sandor: _So what about this bondage you keep talking about?_

Sansa: _was terrible bondage. harry tied me up with his socks n then left the room. after he was gone 10 mins, i was cold n bored waiting 4 him 2 come back so untied myself_

Sansa: _y r u hosptial? r u sick? Dun b sick, sanodr_

Sandor: _I_ _'m not sick or injured in any way. My date is the one who needed care. How much have you had to drink?_

Sansa: _y does every1 always assume ive been drinking whenever i have fun? Y R ALL OF U SO JEALOUS OF MY FUN?_

Sandor: _HOW MUCH HAVE YOU HAD TO DRINK?_

Sansa: _ooh u used more than just 1 ?_

Sansa: _that tells me that u mean business. ur strict 2 rawr_

Sansa: _not much just 1 or 2 lil drinkies. mayb 3? had to drink a lil to b able 2 have sexy times with harry_

Sansa: _hes v handsome but 2 blond n has narrow shoulders n small hands n short legs. plus nose is 2 small_

Sansa: _seemed nice b4 but just seems like big asshole plus i think he has passel of children with sevral women already n i dont want 2 b just another babymama :( :(_

Sansa: _y arent u answering me_

Sandor: _I_ _'m leaving the hospital now and coming home._

Sansa: _sounds like terrible date. im sorry you had bad time :( :( :( what happened?_

Sandor: _My date was acting strange from the start. Kind of paranoid, just weird in general. I knew for sure something was wrong when she started petting my arm and telling me my feathers were pretty._

Sandor: _Turns out she thought it would be a great idea to drop acid just before I picked her up._

Sansa: _so she was trippin balls the entire night? lololololol_

Sandor: It's really not that funny.

Sansa: _LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL_

Sansa: _u think thats bad, while u were rudely not anwsering me harry came back 2 room_

Sansa: _he was totes naked. thats ok I was naked 2. but he was also totes soft limp flaccid unaroused_

Sandor: _I don_ _'t need the whole damned thesaurus. I know what it means._

Sansa: _what a sad little dick, he culd not get hard no matter how i tried. i have mad skillz in that dept so the prob def isn_ _'t me_

Sansa: _i could give blowies in the olympics. would get perfect 10, even from russian judge_

Sansa: _n e way. he wasnt surprised 2 see me untied from bed, i think he expected me 2 get loose. so while i asked him whats going on, he took my skirt off the floor n put it on_

Sansa: _looked really happy with how he looked in it. then he took them off agin. then offered me a popsicle_

Sansa: _so we were having popsicles_

Sansa: _mine was grape in case u care_

Sandor: _I don_ _'t care what flavor your popsicle was._

Sansa: _DO NOT INTERRUPT ME SIR_

Sansa: _so were h aving popsciles n he tells me that he hasnt had an erection since his back surgery last year_

Sansa: _doesnt seem upset by this at all_

Sansa: _wouldnt most men be upset by this? wouldnt u be upset?_

Sandor: _I_ _'d probably jump off the nearest bridge._

Sansa: _see? thats what i thought_

Sansa: _so n e way i think my nite was waaaaay worse than urs_

Sansa: _spending nite in hospitla spending nite with popsicle bondage man_

Sandor: _Is that his official title now? Popsicle Bondage Man?_

Sansa: _yes it has a certain ring 2 it dont u think?_

Sandor: _So, so much therapy._

Sansa: _so once my oppsicle was gone i left n came home put on my jammies n now cant dcide btween eating briennes ice cream or drinking margs wine_

Sandor: _Don_ _'t you have any food of your own, you moocher?_

Sansa: _r u mad? not my fault u arent getting blowies from ur date 2. dont be mad at me. i promise not 2 talk about it anymre_

Sandor: _I_ _'m not mad at you._

Sansa: _n id have 2 go shoppin 2 have my own food but im 2 busy going on dates that make me lose the will 2 live_

Sansa: _im never having sex again n that depresses me_

Sandor: _I am 100% certain you will have sex again one day._

Sansa: _theres no way u can make a promise like that. u cant tell the future. ur not psychic_

Sandor: _Bitch, I might be._

Sansa: _DID YOU JUST_

Sandor: _Yes, I did._

Sansa: _im so proud. here i thought u were an old n didnt no any modern references. im crying tears of joy here_

Sandor: _That_ _'ll teach you to assume I'm a fuddy-duddy._

Sansa: _AHA only an old would use that term. ur honor, i rest my case. send him 2 the docks_

Sandor: _It_ _'s STOCKS, and they don't have those anymore._

Sandor: _ANYWAY. I can so make you that promise. I am guaranteeing you that you_ _'ll have sex again._

Sansa: _thx snador ur the best_

Sandor: _Drink some water, take some Tylenol, and go to sleep, you drunk lunatic._

Sandor: _And don_ _'t call me 'snador'._

Sansa: _can i call u sandro? v. v. latin n exotic_

Sandor: _I_ _'m Scottish, for fuck's sake. Not at all Latino._

Sansa: _im not hearing a no_

Sandor: _Most definitely no._

Sansa: _pooping on my party again_

Sandor: _I_ _'m starting to think maybe you shouldn't have sex again. The risk of passing on your insane DNA is too high._

Sansa: _jokes on u, my brothers n sister will have many many kids so itll still be out there_

Sandor: _God save us all._

Sansa: _theres no escaep_

Sansa: _escpae_

Sansa: _espape_

Sandor: _Just give up. I know what you mean._

Sansa: _no matter where u go itll find u_

Sandor: _A fate worse than death._

Sansa: _u no it_

Sansa: _for the record I think ur feathers r really pretty 2_

Sandor: _So are yours, little bird._

Sansa: _if u call me little bird im going 2 call u big bird_

Sansa: _big bird im sleepy_

Sandor: _Go to sleep, then. And don_ _'t call me Big Bird._

Sansa: [ bigbird . jpg ]

Sandor: _Please do not do that._

Sandor: _Sansa?_


	5. Feels Like the World's at Stake

October 2016

Catelyn had no opportunity to torture Sansa with another blind date for a while after that, but eventually she nagged her daughter into attending a Halloween bar bash with Brent, a software designer looking for upward mobility in his career path. Sansa duded herself up in a 'sexy librarian' costume, crossed her fingers, and hoped for the best.

On paper, Brent seemed like a formidable catch. In reality, he was a meme-loving, red-pill-taking men's rights activist who wore a black trench coat over khaki cargo shorts, a My Little Pony t-shirt, Tevas, and a fedora. When she'd asked him what his Halloween costume was, he'd sniffed that such things were pedestrian, and launched into a diatribe about ethics in gaming journalism.

It was getting harder and harder to keep going to these things, and decided that no matter how her mother nagged, this would be the last one ever. She'd had high hopes for Harry, and felt great disappointment at his overwhelming mediocrity. It wasn't necessarily his fault; she'd been comparing him to Sandor all evening long and of course very few men could live up to such a sterling example of masculinity.

She tried to redirect her attention to Brent in hopes of making the torment end faster, but it was hard going. He'd begun to regale her with tales of his victory over lesser combatants in Call of Duty. At various points, when he wanted to show her his sensitive side, he'd detour into one of his many, many reasons for how atheism is superior to every religion in the world. Sansa was just beginning to feel like sticking her head in one of the decorative nooses strung from the ceiling when Brent happened to see the time on his phone.

"Oh, god!" he exclaimed, a flush of alarm spreading up from his neckbeard to cover his face with red blotches. "It's late! I missed my curfew!"

Sansa looked at her own phone; it was 11.03 on a Saturday night. "Curfew?" A horrible thought came to her. "How old _are_ you, anyway?"

"Oh, it's nothing like that. I'm twenty-eight. No worries about my being jail-bait." He managed a flirty wink at her despite his chagrin, missing her point: she didn't care if he were jail-bait, since she'd decided two hours ago that she'd gnaw off her own feet before spending another evening with him. No, she was amazed that, at his age, he still had a curfew.

"Then why do you have to be home so early?" she asked, morbidly fascinated by the possibilities.

Brent huffed out a sigh. "Well, my mom goes to sleep at eleven, and locks all the doors at that time, so if I'm not home by then, I can't get in again until the next morning."

"Can she not just, like, give you a key?"

He flushed again, causing more blotches to surface. "I'm not accustomed to explaining myself to women," he said loftily, turning from her to put his drink down on the bar.

Sansa had a feeling that just the opposite was true, that he accounted to his mother for every thought in his head.

"Aha," she said. She put down her own drink, extremely ready for this date to be over. "So, what are you going to do, then? If you can't get into your house?"

The faintly contemptuous expression he'd worn all whole evening morphed into one of surprise. "Oh, I thought that you… that I could… that we were going… with you, to your…"

Sansa toyed with the idea of letting him keep stammering but that just felt cruel as it went on and on.

"I have an early morning tomorrow," she told him, hopping off the bar stool and smoothing down her 'sexy librarian' skirt. She was sure she'd be up by 6am, to pee if for no other reason, so it definitely wasn't a lie.

Brent deflated, but then puffed right back up with righteous indignation. "It's always the same. Nice guys finish last, every time."

"How nice have you been, exactly? Because from my side, you've done nothing but spend the past three hours insulting other people. If your mom won't even let you have a key to your own home, how much better can you be, really?"

His bloodshot eyes flashed. "I should have known you were just another bitch who thinks she's too good."

She barely managed to keep from rolling her eyes. "Thanks for the drink," she told him, and left.

Back at her apartment building, when the elevator doors opened, Sandor popped out just as she was about to pop in.

"Just checking the mail," he said, sauntering— yes, _sauntering_ , in that pantherish way he had that only men with a ridiculous amount of muscle tone could achieve- over to the old brass mailboxes set into the lobby wall. "Hold the door for me?"

Sansa obediently stood in the path of the elevator doors. "Thought you had a date tonight."

"Yeah." He riffled through the small packet of envelopes, tossing all but one of them into the trash bin in the corner. "After dinner, she asked me back to her place. Told me she wanted to introduce me to her cat. I was hoping that was a metaphor."

Sansa laughed, and he gave her one of his rare half-smiles. He sauntered back and joined her in the elevator, jabbing at their floor button like it had insulted his mother.

"I'm guessing it wasn't a metaphor?" Sansa prodded. Enclosed in such a small space, Sandor's sheer size dwarfed her and made the elevator seem like it had shrunk even smaller. The scent of his cologne, or deodorant, or whatever-smelled-so-good, wafted delicately into her nostrils. She found herself swaying toward him, like a plant aiming itself at the sun, and hastily corrected her posture.

"No. She's one of those cat ladies. There wasn't just one cat, there were 27 of them. The stink was unbelievable. Talk about a mood-killer." Sandor ran a discerning eye over her. "Where were you tonight? Working late?"

She blinked at him. "Another blind date. Halloween party thing with Neckbeard Mama's Boy. Can't you tell?" She glanced down at herself: she had on her slimmest pencil skirt, a prim pussy-bow blouse of filmy see-through dotted Swiss cotton that couldn't even pretend at hiding her lacy bra, and her hair up in a messy bun. She'd foregone her contacts and worn her nerdiest glasses, slicked on her reddest lipstick, and stepped into her most severe-yet-towering stiletto heels. She even carried a book, to really sell the whole thing.

"This is my 'sexy librarian' costume."

He studied her again, and this time she almost felt his gaze like a physical caress. That piercing stare missed nothing; he took in the hair, the lipstick, the clothes, leaving her feel like he left a scorching trail in its wake. She wondered, idly, if she were singed or if her clothes were charred.

"You don't look any different from usual," was his pronouncement at last.

Sansa gasped. "I never wear an entire outfit of sexy things to work!" she protested. "Only one sexy element per outfit! Just the blouse, or the shoes, or the skirt!"

The elevator doors parted, and they made their way toward their respective apartments.

"Nothing you wear has only one sexy element," he informed her.

She gasped again, this time in offense. "I do not dress inappropriately!" she told him hotly. "I know fashion very well, and excel at putting together outfits that are suited to their environment! I perfectly balance professionalism with sex appeal in everything I wear for work!"

They reached their doors.

"Who said anything about inappropriate?" Sandor's faint grin, originally at her small upset, turned wolfish. "It has nothing to do with the _clothes_ , Sansa."

Then he slipped into his apartment, leaving her to argue with the closed door.

Frowning, she stepped up to the door and hammered on it. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Nothing.

"Sandor!" She beat on the door until it shuddered.

No response.

In fury, she opened her handbag and ripped a blank page from her planner, then scrawled on it, "YOU ARE A GIGANTIC PAIN IN THE ASS" before pushing it under the door.

Sandor's laughter a moment later, audible even through his closed door, followed her into her apartment.

December 31, 2016

Sansa sat at her desk, laboriously wielding her lash comb after applying mascara in preparation for yet another blind date. She had a feeling it would be just as disastrous as all the others, and wondered why she kept doing it.

 _You know why,_ her subconscious whispered.

Yes, she knew why.

Sometime along the course of the past year, Sansa had become resigned to the fact that her fevered mind had made Sandor the touchstone to which she compared all men. As time went on, she developed a sinking feeling he would be that touchstone for the rest of her life. And since he seemed completely unaffected by her attempts to make him realize how perfect she was for him, it appeared she was in for a long and heart-sore few years while she recovered from him.

Why hadn't he made a move? She'd done everything she could think of to let him know she had feelings for him. She'd even continued going on these horrible dates just so she'd have fodder with which to make him jealous. Heck, she'd made up that ridiculous bondage incident with Harry in a last-ditch attempt to provoke some sort of display of interest on his part.

None of it had worked, and still she couldn't keep herself from perpetuating the farce her life had become.

She phoned that night's date, Tony, and canceled for the night. The feeling of freedom that swept through her, upon ending the call, left her feeling scoured clean and brand-new.

 _Over_ , she thought. _It_ _'s finally, blessedly all over, and I can start over._

Almost without conscious input, needing that connection with Sandor, her fingers tapped out a message.

 _7:37pm hey wru?_

 _9:01pm Sandor?_

 **9:22pm I** **'m on another date. What's up?**

Sansa felt a shaft of pain lodge in her chest. Of course he was on another date. Had she really thought he'd be home, alone, pining away, as she was? She was so self-absorbed. Just because she wanted Sandor didn't guarantee he'd want her back. His continuing to go on dates all year long was proof of that, wasn't it? If he were interested in her, why would he be seeing all these other women? Especially when he could pass his crotch-demolishing penis to multiple women on the regular. There was no way she could compete with that. Why would he settle for just her?

 _9:23pm nothing. nm. sorry i bothered u_

 **9:24pm You didn** **'t.**

 **9:24pm How** **'s your date going?**

 _9:25pm not on a date. just home by myself. not going on n e more dates_

 **9:26pm Finally calling it quits? Why, after all this time?**

Sansa had a realization strike her with the force of a thunderbolt.

Everyone knew that men were as dense as bricks 99% of the time. It wasn't their fault, the poor dears. It was that broken chromosome. It got them in all sorts of trouble. But Sandor, being manlier than most, was probably the densest of the bunch. What if, in spite of all her hard work, he remained clueless about her impure intentions regarding his person?

Maybe she _had_ to outright fling herself at him. Maybe it was the only way that the lump of solid concrete on top of his neck would become aware of her interest. She might as well; she had nothing to lose, at this point. It had been a year and a half since she'd met him, and a solid eleven months since she'd begun trying to make him aware she wanted to go out with him, and she was no closer to achieving her goal of Sandor-centered snuggles and orgasms than she had been last year this time.

Feeling better now that she had a sound plan, decided she was going to do this right-the-hell-now.

This was it. This was her moment of truth. Sansa sucked in a deep breath and hoped for the best.

 _9:27pm i cant keep dating other men when im in love with u_

 _9:28pm wanted 2 tell u in person but ur busy so u get it in text_

 _9:28pm i dun want it 2 get weird b tween us so even if u dun like me back its ok. we can just be friends_

 _9:29pm so dun avoid me or n e thing ok? that wuld make me sad :( :( :( :( :(_

 **9:36pm Come up to the roof right now.**

 _9:33pm what? ur on roof? u said ur on date_

 **9:34pm I lied. Sue me.**

 **9:34pm COME UP TO THE ROOF RIGHT THE FUCK NOW.**

 _9:35pm i like when ur forceful_

 **9:35pm SANSA GODDAMMIT**

Heart in her throat, Sansa stood and began to leave her bedroom, then stopped before her mirror and contemplated changing into something sexier than her yummy sushi pajamas and fuzzy slippers. She decided on jeans, a bulky sweater, her Uggs, and was wrapping a big warm scarf around her neck when several meaty thuds sounded against the apartment door.

"What the fuck is taking you so long?" Sandor demanded, his voice muffled through the steel of the door. Then: "Fuck off, Tor."

Sansa guessed that his roommate had stuck his head out of their own apartment to inquire as to the ruckus being made in the hallway. She ran for the door and yanked it open, staring breathlessly up at her beloved's glowering face.

"Sandor, I—"

He tossed her over his shoulder and made for the roof. Once there, Sandor deposited her on her own feet with a bit more of a jolt than Sansa felt was strictly necessary.

"I was just about to come up here," she said, "but you had to jump the gun."

He stared down at her with a face that was somehow both perplexed and hopeful at the same time. "You like forceful, you got forceful."

"That's not all I want." She took a tiny step closer, shivering, nervous, scared. "Do you… I mean, is it okay? That I… that I…"

Now that they were face-to-face, she was finding it hard to just spit out the words she'd been able to text just a few minutes ago. A hot blush scalded her cheeks in an uncharacteristic show of timidity. She had a lot hinging on this, and it scared the heck out of her.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Sandor demanded, then gave a short, disbelieving laugh as he looked up at the dark, starry sky as if it held the answers he needed, then closed his eyes. "It's only what I've been praying for, for the last year."

Her heart leapt. Joy rocked her. _Oh, yes. Thank god._ _Yes._ "You—"

She had no chance to say more, because he hauled her against him and proceeded to kiss the daylights out of her. He kissed her into silence, he kissed her into a seething mass of lust, kissed her until a tiny canary tweeted drunkenly around her dazed head. When it finally ended, he enclosed her in his arms.

"I've been waiting for you for months, you stupid man," she murmured against his flannel shirt. "I thought I'd die from jealousy of those women who had sex with you."

He gave a huff of laughter into her hair, his warm breath feathering against her ear.

"I've been waiting for you for far longer, little bird," he rasped.

"How long?" she challenged. She felt voracious, starving for more details. Clearly, a lot had been going on behind Sandor's scenes. "Because I've been waiting since September."

"That long, huh?" He sounded like he was humoring her.

"Yeah." She pressed a kiss to his Adam's apple. "That's when I knew for sure."

"If that's when you knew, why'd you go out with all those men?" he challenged back. "Why'd you try to suck off Popsicle Bondage Man? And let him go down on you?"

"I didn't. I went to dinner with him, _hated_ him, and was home by ten-thirty. Because he wasn't _you_. That's when I realized that if it's not you, it's just not…" She let out a sigh. "If it's not you, it's just no good."

She poked him in the chest, gaining herself nothing but a sore finger.

"What about you? You went on just as many dates. You were only saved from sex with that one girl because of the condom blow-outs, and you slept with _three_ women that one time! So you have no right to be upset that I—"

She was cut off because his mouth was on hers again. Her irritation faded as lust melted her bones and, possibly, her brain as well. She was very sorry when he ended the kiss.

"It happened for me last New Year's. When you kissed me, I thought maybe… but you didn't seem all that bothered when I told you about the condom blow-outs," he reminded her. "You just thought it was _funny_. It was really fucking irritating. So I figured, if you're not interested, I'll just go back to my life before you came into it. And when that foursome happened… I guess I wanted to prove to myself that I could move on from you. Except that when I told you about it, it was clear you did care, that time. It made me feel bad. And uncomfortable. And then I was pissed because there was no reason for me to feel either of those things. I hadn't made you any promises. You hadn't seemed to want me to.

"I went on that one last date, but my heart wasn't in it, and when she ended up in the hospital for dropping acid, it was like the universe was telling me to give up." He pressed a kiss to her cheek, his beard a soft brush against her skin. "I resigned myself to spending the rest of my life hating the men you dated."

Sansa let out a brief laugh. "You were jealous of my dates, too?"

"If I'd known Harry's address, I'd have castrated him with a spoon," he said with relish. "A _dull_ spoon. A dull, _rusty_ spoon."

Instead of horrifying her, that gruesome image made a little spurt of warmth flash through Sansa. "I'd have let you, too."

She needed to touch him more, to somehow pour her feelings for him through his skin into the very heart of him, and brushed her fingertips over his cheek, her thumb stroking the dark slash of his eyebrow.

"Your hands are chilly," he murmured, and clasped them within his own, blowing on them so they warmed up.

That called for more kissing. Sansa took control of this one, her lips playing with his, exploring the texture on the scarred side of his mouth. Tenderly, she caressed his tongue with her own, and relished the feel of his big, warm body pressed so tightly against hers.

It was cold, up there on the roof, but they didn't notice it. Nor did they hear the chanting of numbers in reverse order, or even notice the way the huge glowing thing in the distance wobbled down its pole. The crowd's drunken screams of joy went unheeded, and the passage into a new year went completely unregarded.

None of it mattered, because all the waiting they'd done was finally at an end.


End file.
